


coming to terms

by threadoflife



Series: coming to terms [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, John Not Coping, M/M, Mind Mary, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Self-Hatred, Therapy, Violence, not the awful real Mary don't worry, this is nice Mind Mary, well more like John's subconscious right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-18 05:05:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9369239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadoflife/pseuds/threadoflife
Summary: After the incident in the morgue, things between Sherlock and John have changed. It takes a while for John to notice, but once he does, he's beyond horrified.Time to come to terms with himself.Even when John Watson is fighting his demons, he always tries to be better.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Примирение](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9381269) by [lee_jay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lee_jay/pseuds/lee_jay)



> So this was an impulsive, phone-typed response to a post on tumblr after TLD and the horrible beating scene. You can find it here: wssh-watson.tumblr.com/post/155623637342/wssh-watson-ravenmorganleigh-sad-headcanon
> 
> This is the first, non-edited, rough draft. I briefly went over it to correct glaring typos or the like, but it's not the final version.
> 
> I'm currently working on making this into a full-fledged fic, so if you want to read this once it's finished--extended scenes, actual prose and not just... combined sentences--keep an eye on it! I think you can subscribe to this or something, I don't know.
> 
> TL;DR this will be a real fic soon

The first time it happens, he doesn’t even notice.

There’s just a moment of inexplicable tension there that doesn’t register under the storm of rage inside John; the rage drowns it out. Sherlock has gone still, completely still, doesn’t blink or visibly breathe. John cannot even see his chest move.

The silence stretches, and when Sherlock doesn’t react after five seconds, just keeps staring at John as if—as if—as if _something_ , John can’t tell, but something—and John unclenches his fists automatically, and seeing Sherlock’s chest still hasn’t moved, he takes a long, deep breath himself.

The moment passes as if… nothing.

Sherlock doesn’t look at him for the rest of the evening.

*

The second time it happens, John notices.

It’s not because he’s suddenly become hyper-aware of himself. He has worked on himself, yes, but he still has issues—so many issues, Christ—that he wouldn’t say he’s okay. He’s still shit. He’s still shit, but he lives with Sherlock again, so it’s a manageable sort of shit.

Only not really.

It’s because of Mrs Hudson that he notices. It’s inevitable, really: Mrs Hudson has always reacted excessively to any sudden sort of noise or movement. Clearly a victim of abuse. No wonder, with that husband of hers.

They’re alone, John and Mrs Hudson, over dinner. John accidentally lets his fork drop with a clatter, and somehow that sound aggravates him—221B has been so silent lately—that he snaps, “ _Damn_ it!” and bangs his palm flat on the table. He doesn’t even know he’s done it until his own rapid breathing reaches his ears. His eyes fly up to find Mrs Hudson having shrunk back, her hand on the back of the chair, already half out of her seat.

They stare at each other wordlessly. Come to think of it, that’s something John and the people around him have been doing a lot, lately. Staring, saying nothing.

He breathes through the realisation— _she is scared of me; I am scaring her_ —and when he’s done, he gets up and leaves her, pale and shaken, without a word of explanation.

He spends the next days walking London until his feet hurt and his chest has gone dull with the ache.

*

The second time it happens, John notices.

They’ve spoken more today than the last days (hell, weeks), and John feels cautiously optimistic. They’re on the couch together, watching telly. It raises feelings of nostalgia that leave goose bumps on his arms, but he’s wearing a jumper, so it goes unnoticed. They sit close. They tend to sit closely, these days. John tries not to think too much about it.

That is why, when he has a glass or two too much, he gets a bit careless. They often sit like this. Sherlock knows him; he knows him more than any other person on this planet ever has and ever will. No movement John can make will be a surprise to him.

That’s what John will think, later.

He stretches, beer in hand, and yawns. He leans forward. Sherlock’s thigh is pressed against his. He isn’t thinking.

He sets the bottle down on the table more forcefully than usual. He isn’t thinking. He’s comfortable, off guard. He’s had a drink too much, so his movements are more uninhibited.

He doesn’t see it happen, only feels it.

Right that very second, Sherlock’s thigh just _jerks_ against his. It jumps—flinches—a violent tremble, as if—as if—as if shot through with something—and it’s just a second but still so violent, and John stares blankly ahead, remembers Mrs Hudson’s shaken face, the pale impression of fear on her face, and he doesn’t move. He can’t move.

He doesn’t move for a full minute, and Sherlock doesn’t move for a full minute.

The tension is there this time, as thick as John’s anger usually. This time John isn’t angry. He was relaxed. Happy, even, if that’s something he still can be.

Now, everything inside him runs cold. Like a phantom ache, his knuckles itch. His palm. His foot, too.

(—slapped Sherlock—slapped him, and slapped him, and it was just once but felt like more—incandescent, John was burning, burning out of his skin, the guilt, God, the guilt, and the lies—and a punch, his knuckles, Sherlock’s bruised skin—another—and then a kick, vicious, vile, God, he loathed himself, couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop, Sherlock’s _blood_ —)

It’s John who jerks away this time, full-bodied. He jumps up from the sofa and looks down at Sherlock, who is unreadable, face closed off entirely. He looks guileless, as if John didn’t just—didn’t just—

Christ.

 _Christ_.

He needs to breathe, needs to _breathe_ —

*

“John? It’s Mrs Hudson. Come back home, John. You know he needs you. Don’t do this again.”

John listens to one out of seven voice mails and deletes the rest.

*

The black car is waiting for him outside. John freezes when he sees it, hand still on the entry door of the building where he works.

As he just stares and doesn’t move an inch, his phone buzzes. A text. Some variation of, _Get in the car. MH_ , that John has ignored for the last month.

He ignores this one now, too. He walks towards the car, stares stonily at it, and makes a sharp curve away from it to round the corner.

For once, the car doesn’t follow.

*

One thing John had always feared worst was turning into his parents.

He sits on Harry’s sofa, stares at all the bottles around him, and is horrified to find that he can’t distinguish the smell between himself and Harry anymore.

Harry hadn’t asked. She hadn’t needed to. She’d pressed a bottle into his hand and willingly gone down under with him.

After four nights in a row of this, John doesn’t just feel sick of the alcohol.

At three thirty in the morning, he gets up, moves into the bathroom, closes the door behind him, turns on the light, and disrobes. He stares at himself in the mirror, nude, and forces himself to take his own reflection in. What he sees is a piece of shit, unworthy, undeserving, just—

“Cut the drama, John,” Mary says from behind him. “You know that’s Sherlock’s role.”

—despicable, vile, how could anybody _love_ him, he’s such a bad person, he isn’t good at all, God, he never wanted to—

“Seriously. You don’t even look half as good as he does when you’re being melodramatic. Drop it.”

“—I don’t want to be like my father,” he confesses in a rush, breathless, words so fast they almost trip over themselves. He feels light, weightless. “But I am, and I’m worthless, and I can’t ever— _can’t ever_ …”

Mary would have let him finish, but he can’t finish. He can’t get the words out. Even in his own head, he can’t say it.

He ends up sobbing into his own shoulder, his dead wife sitting on the bathtub before him, oddly silent for once.

*

After forty-three days, Sherlock writes him.

_Come home. SH_

John has never both loved and despised words more than these. Come home. As if he could just—!

“You can,” Mary tells him from the door.

John’s head snaps up. It’s the first time in over a week that he’s seen her since the bathroom incident. His hand is still bandaged, and Harry won’t speak to him unless he buys a new mirror for her.

“I can’t,” he snaps back, tired of these conversations. As if he doesn’t know better.

“You do,” Mary says, going on relentlessly. “You’re just too much of a coward.”

It’s really shit having a talking, walking subconscious.

John deliberately takes a deep breath and inhales and exhales through the anger, until it’s somewhat passed.

He doesn’t answer to Mary. There’s no need to.

They both know it’s true, anyway.

*

He can, and he does. Therapy, twice a week, with a man. He loathes it, every second. It’s hell.

He goes through it. He’s been through hell before, and Sherlock has been to hell, too, because of him. For him. He does it for Sherlock.

Sherlock’s one message is the only text he’s kept. Mycroft’s numerous texts and the odd missed call and all of Mrs Hudson’s angry voice mails, he long deleted.

Sherlock’s text— _Come home_ —he keeps. _Come home_. As if it’s that easy. As if it’s okay.

But he can, and he does, because nothing ever was easy, and nothing ever was okay. Some things are unacceptable, and even saying them doesn’t make that all right.

Working on them, though, possibly, just might.

*

The first time he sees Sherlock again is after three months and six days. It’s early summer. It’s much too beautiful to be having tense conversations, but here they are, in a neutral restaurant, both eating and avoiding one another’s eyes.

When Mary tells him the third time to, “Talk, John, Jesus Christ!” John swallows.

He very slowly puts the fork down.

“Sherlock,” he begins and doesn’t know how to go on. How do people have these conversations? This is awful. He hates this. It’s difficult for him. He clears his throat, tries to get the panic out. “Sherlock.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock says. “It’s fine.”

John’s mouth is still open, mid-speech.

“Of course it’s fine,” Sherlock says, chances a quick glance at him and a brief smile. “I deserved it.”

Oh, hell. Oh, Christ. The coldness is back, and John wants to hurl. Jesus Christ.

“No.” There are earthquakes in his voice. His teeth feel like they’re about to quiver apart. “No, it’s not okay. Actually. It’s not okay at all.”

Sherlock stares down at the table, brow furrowed. He looks confused.

“It’s awful,” John continues, and he feels like he can’t breathe. He soldiers on, because it’s what he does. “It’s awful, and it should never have happened, and I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I was a cock. I was an arsehole. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I hurt you,” Sherlock says, muttering, and John almost misses it because he says it to the table. “I hurt you, so I deserved it.”

It feels so surreal, he and Sherlock sitting here in broad daylight, _talking about things_. It feels so surreal and is long overdue.

John takes another breath. “Maybe some of it. That one time, before Irene Adler’s flat, that was—yeah, you deserved that.”

The left corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up.

“And maybe, maybe you deserved a bit of punching too when you came back. Because you—” Christ, he has to say it. He has to say it. “—you—you left me, for two years. That wasn’t. That wasn’t good.”

The old familiar surge of anger and bitterness creeps up on him, but it isn’t about that now. John pushes it ruthlessly aside and continues, squaring his shoulders.

“But everything after that—Sherlock, _no_ , you did not deserve that. You.” His throat is tight, so he coughs, tries to clear it. “You.” The itch in his throat becomes a tear, breaking his voice.

Bloody bodies, the lot of them. Always so treacherous.

“You did everything for me,” John says, and in the calmness of his voice, there’s a tremor. “You did everything for me, and I should have been there for you. I wasn’t.”

In his hand, there’s a tremor too. His hand is on the table.

“Please—please forgive me. I should never have done that.”

His hand is shaking badly. Sherlock is looking at it, and John doesn’t hide it, not anymore. Sherlock can see all of him now, if he wants to. If he still wants to, after all that John has done.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, and his voice has none of the brashness of before. It’s low but firm. “I said it’s fine, John. It’s fine.”

John forgets to breathe, does not do it and literally does not think of it, as he watches Sherlock’s hand cover his on the table. His large hand, engulfing John’s deficient, smaller one. Like it’s precious, even though it hurt him, even though it touched him in bad blood.

God, Sherlock. _Sherlock._

 _Yes_ , John thinks, and this time the voice is not Mary’s anymore, but his. Finally his. _Yes, this has always been who he is. He’s always been this brave._

John is stuck in a limbo, staring down at their hands. Sherlock is staring too—barely breathing—and then he closes his eyes and his—

his thumb moves. Brushes, just _so_ , over the back of John’s hand.

John jerks his hand back as if he’s burnt himself.

Sherlock’s entire beautiful open face closes off in a single second, but not before John hasn’t seen the hurt: cracked open, a vulnerability so devastating that it makes him react instinctually.

“No,” he says, brings his hand forward again and snatches Sherlock’s before he can take it back. He holds it there, pressed down into the table. “No, Sherlock. If we—”

A stab of panic in his chest, but John ignores it.

“—if we, if we ever do that, I don’t want to touch you like this. I want to…” He closes his eyes. He’s such a fucking coward, can’t look at Sherlock when he says it. “… When I touch you the first time, like this—I—”

_Say it, John. Say it. Years long, now say it, get the hell on with it._

“—I want you to know only love and pleasure,” John chokes out and can’t help it: the tears slide down his face, sudden, unbidden, and ugly.

Sherlock lets him cry, as if he knows this is something John has to do on his own. He doesn’t move his hand, and John does not even have the strength to cover up his face.

When John has finished crying, their hands are still intertwined. Sherlock’s fingers are holding his, tightly. Like they don’t want to let go.

Eventually, Sherlock looks up. His eyes are bright and red and beautiful.

“Okay,” is all he says.

Maybe they will be. Okay.


	2. [behind the scenes]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In time, John will come back, and all the voices inside his head will be quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idefk. This is part of the _coming to terms_ series.
> 
> it's a response to this post http://wssh-watson.tumblr.com/post/157702400722/abovethethroat-wssh-watson-wssh-watson in which I thought about the differences of s1/s2 and s3/s4 John again, which, to me, will always come back to the same problem: the fall, and what it destroyed.
> 
> This is basically the background of John's character; this is how I read him in s3/s4, and it's what the real fic--the write out of the draft _coming to terms_ , as of now tentatively titled "soldier on"--will deal with. it's the root of the problem, and it's the context of this going unaddressed and swallowed down and repressed that i see tld's beating happening in.
> 
> if it's unclear to you or whatever, have a look at my "abuse fic" tag on tumblr. i talk a lot about john's character in general but specifically s3/s4.
> 
> http://wssh-watson.tumblr.com/tagged/abuse-fic
> 
> the real fic "soldier on" will also use this http://wssh-watson.tumblr.com/post/157106854537/tld-john-victim-of-abuse-and-mind-mary as basis for john's character.
> 
> "soldier on" will focus on tld's beating as well as mind mary. 
> 
> if you ever want to talk about john, let me know! my inbox is always open! discussions are lovely and help me flesh him out more!
> 
> [sorry for posting twice. i clicked the wrong thing. i know a couple people have subscribed to this... i'm wondering how to let you know about the real fic "soldier on" once i've started this? I will post it within the series of "coming to terms" but not as a new chapter; it will be a stand-alone. i hope you're gonna see it when i do, lmao. i have no idea how ao3 works]

John has little to no idea how to express himself, how to express his anger and, most of all, _grief_. Sherlock let him think he’s dead. It’s not the lie itself that plagues him so heavily; it’s everything implicit in the spaces they left unaddressed. It’s “I believed in you, and you left me to rot. I know we didn’t have a suicide pact or anything stupid like this, but we saved each other. We saved each other, and you know this, and yet you went and did this, left me alone, left me behind in this world without you. You’re my _life_ ; you’re _everything_ ; how could you take that away from me? You loved me, at least I think you did, in whatever manner you were capable of ever loving someone—I think I was the person that was closest to you in all your life—how could you do this to me? Was it nothing, what we had? Were all the glimpses I saw of you—your small, fleeting smiles, your little gestures in between—not real? Was it not real, what we had? Was it all my imagination? I know it’s not but it’s easier to believe it _is_ because I don’t understand this, I don’t understand any of this. How could you do this to me? How?”

They were a pair—the two of them against the rest of the world. They were in this together—this, life, everything. They shared everything but a bed, but even that bed grew to be comically insignificant. Here is the person John is in love with—here is the person John _loves_ —of whom he’s fairly sure he’s loved in return, in whatever manner that person is capable of—and it turns into a big sham.

Because after this happens… what’s the likelihood that Sherlock loves him after all, as John assumed he did before the fall?

 _Impossible_ , his grief says. _He let you believe he’s dead for two years, appeared in the restaurant with a smile like it was all a big joke to him, like you were a joke to him. You were, probably. A joke. All you had, just a joke. Not real._

 _You made it up in your head_ , (unrequited) love says, brutally truthful. _It was never real and you made this into something you wanted it to be. It wasn’t real. You never shared this thing you thought you shared._

 _It’s too late anyway, now,_ regret says right after. _Look at you: married and expecting a child. You’re going to be a father, now. And no matter how he looks at you, no matter what he does for you now, you had your chance and you both missed it. It’s too late now. There is no going back. This is over. If he looks at you like this again, you need to look away. There’s no sense in it._

 _And even if it isn’t over, you can’t possibly touch him like now anymore,_ self-loathing says, insidiously but with a voice that grows louder each day. _You can never touch him with these hands anymore, these hands that beat him bloody. You can’t love him anymore like this, broken and ruined and messed up as you are. Look at you, look at the scar of his left eyebrow, look at the way he flinches around you when he thinks you aren’t looking, look at how you drive him to the brink of self-destruction all over. This is your love, leaving him bloody on a hospital bed. If Mary hadn’t told you to save him you’d have let him die there. You’re a bad person. How could you possibly love him now? You’ve been nothing but unkind and ungrateful for him ever since he’s been back, even though he tried so hard, more than anyone else ever tried for you._

_You want to forgive him, but you don’t._

_Because I’m still here,_ grief says. _I’m still here, and you’re ignoring me._

 _And you turned me into something ugly_ , ((un)requited) love says. _Please let me go._

 _And I am stronger now than ever,_ regret says.

 _And I will choke you whenever you try to breathe,_ guilt says.

 _Look at what your love does,_ self-loathing says. _How can you live with yourself?_

One day, Sherlock tells him he was right. One day, Sherlock will sit him down and take his hand and say it to his face: “You’re right. You know me for real, always have done. A hundred percent. I loved you, but I didn’t know—that’s how I could do this to you. I know it isn’t much, and I am sorry—you cannot believe how sorry I am—but it is what it is. I didn’t know. I was slow. I’m sorry. If you can ever forgive me…”

Grief will open its mouth and pour down John’s face, finally being allowed to speak.

Slowly, the voices in John will fade, one by one, little by little. Slowly… but they will fade. In time, grief will say goodbye with a smile; regret and guilt will let go of his throat and his heart; self-loathing will be pushed back; and the love is finally allowed to leave the parentheses.

Love will be gentled, warmed, and appreciated. Love will be held in the trembling palms of hands that will learn to treasure him, as if he were fragile and precious.

And then, just then, John will come back. John will come back, and he will be softer, gentler, and more open than before.

And he will be able to look at Sherlock and say, “I forgive you,” and mean it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] coming to terms](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10166540) by [consulting_smartass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consulting_smartass)




End file.
